


It's not being gay, if you're wearing handcuffs

by kleiothemuse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock, First Time, Fuck Or Die, Handcuffs, Kidnapping, Love, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Public Display of Affection, Public Nudity, Semi-Public Sex, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Top John, it's all pretty public okay?, it's all very silly really, kind of, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 14:39:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6809314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleiothemuse/pseuds/kleiothemuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up handcuffed to a bed. This would be troubling enough in itself, but quite quickly he discovers that he's lying on top of Sherlock, who is also tied to said bed.</p><p>Yes, it's one of those days.</p><p>However, there is also the small matter of John's penis being lodged in Sherlock's arse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as just this one scene (Act I), then grew on to include an epilogue of some sort (Acts II and III). The first part can still be read on its own, though, if you don't care for happy endings :)
> 
> I thank the gorgeous **sideris** for taking the time to beta this for me. I love you, my dear! :)

****The world was all white and kind of blurry, when John woke up. It took a couple of blinks to realise that the whiteness was actually a bedsheet, though not his own. The blurriness, on the other hand, was a bit trickier to work out - which was mostly due to the fact that he must have been drugged.

Yes, John remembered enjoying a nice cup of tea in his armchair by the fireplace, with the telly on but without actually watching it. Something about sheds and how nicely they could be fixed up, if you just had some time and money and George bloody Clarke to present it on national television.

And then, all of a sudden, he had felt awfully drowsy. Right in the middle of the afternoon. First he had blamed Channel 4, because sleep was the natural consequence of watching a show as stupefyingly boring as _Shed of the Year_. But it had been the fact that he didn’t seem to be able to shake it off, not even after turning off the television, that had got him worried.

He remembered trying to get up to tell Sherlock that something was wrong, and then the armchair had done something funny and knocked him down. After that… nothing. Just black.

Until now white.

John lifted his head and tried to rub his eyes to clear things up a bit, but he found that he couldn’t. His hands wouldn’t move. And why would they, what with handcuffs keeping them right where they were: firmly attached to the metal bars at the head of the bed he seemed to be lying on.

Yes, he was lying face down, on a mattress with a white sheet covering it. It smelled clean and kind of plastic, like breathing the inside of a shopping bag. So, a new bed? Except that, from what he could see of the bedhead, the bars had lost most of their paint, replaced by specks of rust here and there, and one or two of them were missing entirely. So, an old bed with new sheets, John concluded.

He took a moment to congratulate himself on his keen eye for detail. Now there was only the matter of figuring out whose body he was lying on.

Because even though his face was buried against a mattress, there certainly was no such thing underneath the rest of his body. Not unless he had been misfortunate enough to be handcuffed to the lumpiest bed in existence.

“John?” said a familiar voice somewhere extremely close by. “Are you awake?”

“Sherlock! What the hell…? What happened? Where are we?”

“An early 1900’s Victorian terraced house - there’s no mistaking that plastered ceiling and the shoddy wiring - probably somewhere in London, because it isn’t dark yet, unless of course we’ve been transported for more than 24 hours, but it seems unlikely.”

“But how… who… why would…?”

John paused as an even more important point had just occurred to him. He turned his head just a little to the right and saw, not white sheet any more, but dark curls and piercing blue eyes that were less than an inch from his face. Which was far too close for comfort.

With effort he managed to tilt his head and look over Sherlock’s head, where his arms stretched out towards the centre of the bedhead. “Are you cuffed to the bed, too?”

“Yes. But no need to be alarmed. Not yet, anyhow.” Sherlock paused, looking very serious. “It gets worse, John.”

The blurriness had quickly evaporated, and John had already managed to take in that he was not only handcuffed to a bed with Sherlock, but that he was, in fact, lying there _on top of_ Sherlock. Yes, that was definitely Sherlock’s bony body spread out underneath him, pushing against John’s ribcage and pelvis with its viciously sharp edges.

And as far as he could tell without actually seeing anything below Sherlock’s neck, the both of them appeared to be completely naked.

“ _Fucking hell_!” John felt that pretty much summed up his sentiments on the matter.

“Yes, as I said it gets worse,” Sherlock started, sounding even more awkward than the situation demanded. “Do try to keep calm, John. It is very important that you don’t panic.”

“Worse? How? We’re handcuffed to a bed - _naked_ \- and God knows where. How could this possibly get any _worse_?!”

Sherlock cleared his throat, closed his eyes and then said very slowly, very matter-of-factly, “I cannot verify this due to our current position, but I have quite a strong reason to believe that your penis is, at the moment, lodged inside my anus.”

The whole of John’s body tensed. He stared at Sherlock for a moment, unable to believe what he had just been told, and unable to see for himself. He couldn’t breathe, didn’t want to risk even blinking in case it might lead to movement, and right now, movement was the enemy.

“Please, John. It is vital that we remain calm and reasonable. Panicking won’t help us solve this predicament.”

John could feel himself wavering right on the edge of said panic, even lured by its easiness: he could scream and shout and struggle and just _do_ something. But he knew Sherlock was right, it would solve nothing. Also, panicking required movement.

He took a deep breath, then another, and another, just to be on the safe side. Finally, a coolness washed over him and he welcomed it like an old army friend. So, he couldn’t see much below his neck. Fine. Luckily he had four more senses that were working perfectly well.

John started from his toes, wiggling them against the mattress, just to make sure they still worked. Then he tried moving his feet, only to notice that they were tied together at the ankles. Then, in his mind’s eye, he moved up his legs all the way to his behind, which felt bare, thereby proving that he was, indeed, naked. There was something on his lower back, though, a weight that he couldn’t understand at first, but then it hit him: Sherlock’s legs. Of course. He hadn’t felt them underneath or beside his own, and unless they had been cut off - in which case he scarcely would have missed the huge amount of blood on the sheets - Sherlock’s legs had to be somewhere.

“Yes, from what I can tell,” said Sherlock, as if in answer to John’s thoughts, “my legs have been wrapped around your waist, ankles tied together with nylon rope around the ankles - standard variety, untraceable - and there seems to be a light brown leather strap just below my knees, which not only binds my legs together by also connects them to my thighs. Judging by what I can see, it appears to have been made specifically for the purpose, so it might be possible to track down if we...”

But John wasn’t listening to him any more. He had more important things to figure out. Significantly more important.

He had to do it. He had to move his hips, just a little, enough to know for sure…

Sherlock’s sudden gasp was answer enough.

“Sorry,” John hurried to say. “Sorry. I just wanted to make sure… Shit!”

Sherlock took a few deep breathes, the frown of pain sliding slowly off his face. “We’ll come to that in a minute. But until then, would you mind staying perfectly still? The sensation is very distracting.”

“Sorry,” John muttered once more. His whole body was now so rigid, he was afraid he might accidentally move simply from trying too hard _not_ to move. “But I don’t understand… How is this possible? I mean, how the hell did they get… you know… inside?”

Sherlock interrupted him before he could leave any more sentences unfinished. “You must have been given something to sustain an erection while unconscious.”

“But even with Viagra there has to be some form of, of… arousal, physical stimulation or… Jesus Christ, are you saying they _touched_ me before…?”

“Best not think about it too much,” replied Sherlock curtly. “That’s not the most important thing right now.”

Despite the risk of having to move his hips, John struggled to get his face directly above Sherlock’s. Some things needed to be shouted right in somebody’s face, and this was one of them.

“Having my cock touched by some psycho so that they can shove it up your arse _isn’t the most important thing_?!”

Sherlock tilted his head back towards the bedhead. “There, look.”

Whereas John’s were cuffed wide apart, Sherlock’s wrists were cuffed together right at the centre of the bed railing. However, that was not what Sherlock was indicating. John followed his gaze upwards and there, taped right to the top of one of the once-shiny brass knobs that decorated the old bed, was a tiny key.

“The key to the handcuffs, John.”

“Can you reach it?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, that would be too easy. But I think we are supposed to get to it - why else leave it there. You, John.” Sherlock was looking him straight in the eye now. “You could reach it. If you climbed up over me, you might be able to snatch it between your teeth.”

“Climb? Sherlock, I can barely move with…you know.”

Sherlock’s voice dropped as he said very seriously, almost as if giving an order, “John, given the way we are tied, the only way you will be able to slide up and reach that key is for you to extract yourself from me.”

“How the hell am I supposed to do that?! If you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty much glued in place here!”

To make his point, John tried pushing his hips back as far away from Sherlock as he could. He could feel Sherlock’s heels digging into his lower back and heard the soft cry of pain Sherlock let out as the leather strap tightened around his legs, but it was of no use. John had always took pride in being somewhat well-endowed, but right now he would have happily forfeited some of his length, because despite his best efforts, he could only pull maybe an inch of his dick out of Sherlock, and it was far from enough.

With a grunt, he slumped back down, earning another gasp from Sherlock.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. My muscles have had plenty of time to stretch and adjust. I just need to keep my sphincter relaxed and try to avoid stimulating my prostate any more than necessary, and I’ll be perfectly fine.”

John turned away from Sherlock, trying to find something else to think about instead of Sherlock’s anatomy. Words like _sphincter_ and _prostate_ were doing bad, dirty things to him and he had to steer his mind somewhere else entirely.

“Where do you think we are?”

“Basement apartment,” came Sherlock’s reply instantly. Clearly he had already had time to take in their surroundings. “There might be a narrow window high up on our right, but it was boarded shut years ago. The electricity is still on, as evidenced by the single lamp hanging from the ceiling right above your behind, but it’s probably being stolen from the neighbours, so there’ll be no electric bill to track down. Judging by the dampness, this room hasn’t been heated for at least one winter, so I’d say we’re looking at a house facing demolition.”

Now that Sherlock mentioned it, the air felt stiff, like it hadn’t moved about in a while, and there was definitely a mouldy scent to it. Thankfully the room seemed small and the weather outside was still warm enough that they didn’t have to fear dying of exposure. Besides, they were sharing body heat just like the survival guides instructed. John doubted they mentioned anything about intercourse, though.

“The sheets are new, though,” he said, just to add something to Sherlock’s comprehensive narrative.

“Mm, yes. And the bed, though used, has been brought in specifically. It’s old, but the mattress doesn’t feel at all damp, so it’s not from this house.”

“But that means they actually planned this!”

"Yes."

John sighed. “I guess we’ll just have to wait for the drug to wear off, and then I can get to that key.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said again, looking past John at something on the ceiling above, possibly at the lamp, which John couldn’t see without wringing his neck. The expression on Sherlock’s face was so peaceful, as if he was resigned to waiting patiently for either the drug to run its course, or their captor making his appearance - whichever should come first.

“That could take hours,” said John, just to say something. As much as he wanted to, he simply couldn’t find in himself the same quiet calm as Sherlock seemed to have. “And by then this place might be crawling with spectators.”

“Yes.”

“But there’s just no other way I’m going to get... it... out of you while…” John took a moment to choose his words. “It’s _hard_ , Sherlock.” He wasn’t certain if the message had sunk in. “Really _very_ hard.”

“Hmm.”

John took a closer look at Sherlock. How the hell did he do it? How could he just lie there, waiting? Waiting for what, exactly? He had to understand that it was impossible for John just to “extract” himself. Why wasn’t he thinking up a new plan? Why the hell was he just so bloody calm!

Well, apparently it was left to John to do the thinking. First, he tested the cuffs - no, there was no way to slide his hand through them. Then, he tried moving his body up and down, but the few measly inches that he managed to shift himself amounted to nothing. Except a couple of sharp inhales from Sherlock as the pain of his movement hit him. John quickly apologised and reminded himself to keep still, because every time he moved back or forth was a bit too much like actually having sex with Sherlock. Of course, the unwanted erection might go away if he were to…

And then it hit him. The thing Sherlock had been waiting for. Not the drug, not their captor, but John.

“So _that’s_ your plan? And when were you going to share it with me?”

Sherlock gave something of a shrug, as much as he could move his shoulders. “I thought you’d catch up eventually. An orgasm is the logical, although by no means assured way of allowing the blood vessels in the erectile tissue to constrict. So, will you do it?”

“W-what? Have _sex_ with you to get us out of here? Jesus christ, Sherlock! Can even hear yourself?”

Sherlock snorted. “If you have a better plan, by all means, do share.”

John drew a deep breath, so that he might not accidentally bite Sherlock’s head off. Quite literally. When he started to speak, it was only with the utmost restraint that he merely shouted and not screamed.

“How the hell is me _fucking_ you a plan?!”

“Fine.” Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, acting provokingly indifferent. “If you refuse to take the easy way out, then I guess we will just have to wait it out. Maybe we’ll get to see those guns, as well.”

“ _Easy way_?! Sherlock, we’re talking about intercourse! Actual, penetrative sex. I wouldn’t call having sex with your best mate the easy way!”

“Please, most animals are capable of having sex. Surely you can manage one simple, mechanic act? Most of the work has been done for you anyway.”

John thought about this. Sherlock was right, of course: their captor had, indeed, taken care of most of the basics. Sherlock was there, naked and more or less horizontally positioned, which really was the job halfway done already. But to top it off, their captor had taken things even further and actually taken care of the preparations that even someone as inexperienced as John knew were required for anal penetration to be successful. Some form of lubrication was in place, John suspected, judging by the easiness with which he had slid those few centimeters in and out of Sherlock. Their capturer had also taken care of stretching Sherlock’s anal muscles, which thankfully seemed to have happened during his unconsciousness.

The fact of the matter was that John really was more than halfway there. Hell, the position they were tied in practically guaranteed that he wouldn’t even have to move much to finish off.

But this was _Sherlock_. His best mate. The man he lived with, worked with. The insufferable bloody man he had followed through thick and thin. How in God’s name was he supposed to look Sherlock in the eye after something like this? It was bad enough having to face him after a quick wank in the shower, but it was nothing compared to being forced to fuck him for the amusement of some sick weirdo, who was probably recording every damn minute of it!

“John. It’s all right.”

“No, it bloody isn’t!”

John buried his face in the sheet. The clean and unspoilt scent of it felt reassuring, safe. Still, it wasn’t enough to keep the tears from starting to fill his eyes. This was just too much. The horrific feeling that he would have to hurt the person who meant the most to him - and a sickening realisation that there was a part of him that would enjoy it, part that had wanted this for a very long time. Had their captor known that? Was that why he had put them in this situation to begin with, to exploit John’s feelings for Sherlock? To humiliate him, to toy with him?

John wanted to protest, to go against the bastard’s scheme at any cost, even if it meant staying tied up like this till dehydration swept him off to oblivion.

However, it appeared Sherlock was determined to get them free much sooner.

John gasped when he felt Sherlock’s legs wrap tighter around his waist and pull him down. His cock slid only a tiny bit deeper into Sherlock, but the ripples of pleasure spread quickly throughout his entire body. His cock didn’t know in whose body it was buried, it simply felt the tightness and the friction and the sweet warmth of another body around it.

“Sherlock, no!”

But before he could utter another word, Sherlock repeated the movement, this time shooting his hips up so sharply that John was certain something would break.

 _Oh, sweet Jesus_ , it felt so good. Much, much too good.

“Sherlock, please. I can’t do this. I’m not…”

“Yes, I know, you’re not gay. So you keep telling me,” Sherlock snapped almost angrily. “I’m sorry, John, but no matter how terribly unattractive you might find me, you will just have to grin and bear it this once.”

John lifted his head, turning to face Sherlock. There was actual annoyance in his eyes, even a hint of embarrassment.

“That’s not what I… It’s not _that_. It’s this whole…” John started, but Sherlock interrupted him before he could figure out how to finish his thought.

“Would kissing help?”

“Wha-- _?_ ”

“Kissing,” Sherlock repeated, sounding impatient. The movement of his hips and legs had ceased, but his heels were dug deep enough in John’s back to suggest that he planned on resuming presently. “Oral stimulation. It’s commonly used to increase sexual arousal during intercourse. It also works as a distraction, which, in this case, might expedite the process. Just close your eyes and think of that secretary or whoever you went out with last week. So, shall we?”

John just stared at Sherlock’s face, trying to find even a hint of jest, but failing. He opened his mouth to tell Sherlock that no, kissing would _not_ help things along this time, because in his mind it was an even more intimate act than intercourse. Which was an absurd and kind of Pretty Woman-ish notion, but there you had it.

Of course, he didn’t get to say any of this. Apparently Sherlock mistook the act of opening his mouth as a sign of encouragement, and before John could so much as draw breath, Sherlock’s lips were on his.

It was not a tender kiss. No, Sherlock’s kiss was hard and businesslike and demanding. But it did have the effect Sherlock had intended, and it made John forget about where he was and what he was doing for a brief moment. It did not make him forget who he was with, though. In fact, John couldn’t even have told him the name of that secretary at that moment. He was entirely lost in the moment, and in Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock’s body, grinding against his own.

When he came to, John realised that it wasn’t Sherlock who was grinding, after all. No, it was definitely John, swaying his hips as much as the bonds would allow, pushing his groin against Sherlock slowly but steadily.

 _Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God_. The panic hit him the moment he understood what he was doing: he was actually fucking Sherlock. He was fucking his best mate with slow, deep thrusts.

_Oh, GOD!_

John had to tear himself away from Sherlock’s mouth for just one second, he had to see it to believe it: that it really was Sherlock underneath him, that it was Sherlock’s flesh that he was buried in so deep, so tight, that it made his cock ache and burn. The pale eyes looked up at him, the full lips now wet and red and swollen, the dark curls clinging to the sweat on his forehead. Good God, how could anyone look so gorgeous under such circumstances?

“Sherlock, I…” But there was really nothing to be said. This was not the time for confessions, or even apologies, and Sherlock seemed to understand him.

“It’s all right, John. You’re not hurting me. Just do it. Finish it.” Sherlock craned his neck and pulled John into another kiss, a deeper and sloppier one this time. “Fuck me, John.”

Afterwards, John couldn’t be sure if he had actually heard Sherlock say those words, or whether it had simply been his ever hopeful subconsciousness filling in the blanks. At the time, it really made no difference.

He plunged into Sherlock, moving as much as the ropes and cuffs would let him. His fingers wrapped around the bed railings for leverage as he rammed himself harder against Sherlock’s arse, spread wide open for him, welcoming him, all the way in.

When the orgasm hit him, it nearly knocked him out. Maybe it was a side-effect of the drug or maybe just the result of years of pent-up lust, but John didn’t just come, he fell apart. He had his mouth on Sherlock’s and kept on sucking his lips desperately, convulsively, until every last bit of him had come undone and dissolved into Sherlock’s flesh. He suspected that he might have died at one point, just a little, but he definitely didn’t regret it.

“The key, John.”

It took John a moment to decipher the words and grasp what on earth they had to do with the bliss he was drowned in at that moment. But then the cold reality of the empty cellar came rushing back.

It hadn’t been real sex, it didn’t have anything to do with love or even lust. Sherlock hadn’t wanted it, and John definitely shouldn’t have enjoyed it. What they had done, had been nothing more than a means to an end.

Carefully John began pulling himself out of Sherlock. He felt a condom peel off as he slid out, but refused to think about how it had been put on and by whom. Just as Sherlock had predicted, the effects of the drug had worn off with the orgasm and he was now free to slide up over Sherlock and reach for the key on top of the bed knob. It took a few tries, but once the key was between his teeth, he knew they would be free.

And that it was all over.

*****

John stared at the computer screen. Then he picked up the laptop and carried it through the kitchen to Sherlock’s closed door. He gave the door a few sharp kicks as a way of knocking.

“Yes, what is it? I’m busy.”

“Have you borrowed my laptop again?”

“Yes. Maybe. If it was there. I’m really busy now, John.”

John cleared his throat, taking one more look at the computer screen in his hands.

“Do you know how Google Ads works?”

Sherlock waved his hand impatiently.

“They take the keywords you use in searches and from the websites you visit and build you a profile based on them. Why?”

“Well then,” John started, turning the screen so that Sherlock could see it, “why does Google Ads think I’d be interested in buying used furniture or saving 70% on house demolition?”

 


	2. Act II

They were given a nice, quiet table in the furthest corner of the restaurant. It had come highly recommended for both its food and its ambience. Also, it had been the first name Google spurted ou t  when John searched for a place near the address Sherlock had given him. Apparently that was where he had been working on something significant for the past two days, not that he had disclosed so much as a hint of what that was. Judging by the blood stains on the shirts John had found in the laundry basket, it might involve something dead.

It was still too early for Soho and the dining room stood nearly empty, but John could hear cheerful chatter coming from the adjoining bar. It sounded like they were having fun in there. Those happy bastards.

John sighed and ordered a bottle of the first red wine on the list that he knew how to pronounce with some confidence. When it arrived, Sherlock graciously accepted a glass, but waved away both the menu and the waiter.

“Come on, Sherlock. We came here to eat. So eat. Something. Anything.”

“Not hungry.”

John let out another sigh and decided on the chef’s menu, just because it would give him three courses worth of time to have a proper talk with Sherlock.

However, as he sat there opposite the morose man, who was trying to disappear inside his wine glass, it was starting to feel that this  might not have been such a terrific idea after all. On the outside, Sherlock appeared perfectly normal. John noticed the absence of blood, which was nice, considering the level of the restaurant, bu t e ither Sherlock’s mind was somewhere completely different, o r h e really, really would have rather been there himself. John was getting absolutely no response from him, which made the whole idea of sharing a meal together and having a good chat seem overly optimistic. Still, this was the only plan John had come up with in the days after The Incident.

They hadn’t talked about it. At all. After John had confronted Sherlock with the Google evidence, it hadn’t been addressed or even referenced in any way. To an outsider it might have seemed like things were just as they always. Like nothing had even happened between them. Like Sherlock had never concocted a stupid, sadistic plan to trick John into having sex with him.

Because now John knew for certain that it had all been Sherlock’s doing. Seeing the Google Ads had aroused his suspicions, but the last straw thrown on the poor camel’s back was discovering that there was a whole week missing from his browser history. And it just so happened that it was the week their former client stood trial - as it turned out that he was less of a client and more of a psychotic serial killer - and John remembered visiting the sites of several newspapers on a daily basis to catch the latest news. And now, all of it was gone. Erased.

Well, not all. Apparently something had been forgotten, some cookie or whatever. And Google remembers everything.

It hadn’t exactly helped the matter that Sherlock acted very uncharacteristically after their escape from the House of Forced Entry - as John sometimes called it, in his mind, not in his blog. Instead of delving into investigation mode, Sherlock shut himself in his bedroom, emerging only to go out and then return too late for John to be around to witness it.

John did a little digging himself and found out that there was nothing to investigate: the house had been demolished the day following their escape, in accordance with the council’s unanimous decision last month. Which meant that there was no crime scene and not a scrap of evidence that they had ever even been there. 

Sherlock had given no explanation to the Google Ads, and after a few tries, John had stopped asking.

Until now.

“So, how’s the wine?” John asked, as Sherlock poured himself a second glass.

“Sour.”

“Good. So good that you’re enjoying yourself.” John took a long sip of his own glass before continuing. The wine, despite its outrageous price, did leave a sour aftertaste. “Look, we need to talk about what happened. I… I know that it was you, Sherlock.”

“Splendid. What a great detective you are, John. Not a thing goes unnoticed. Marvellous.”

John eyed him suspiciously. Anyone else would have been mortified to have his devious scheme blown wide open like that, but not Sherlock. No, if anything, he seemed…  _ annoyed _ ?

“Sherlock, you drugged me,” John said lowering his voice, even though what he really felt like  doing was shouting so loud even the happy people in the bar would hear him. “You kidnapped me, handcuffed me to a bed and forced me to have sex with you. Isn’t there anything you want to say to me?”

To John’s surprise, a smile spread over Sherlock’s face. He was smiling. He actually had the  _ nerve  _ to smile!

“Forced?” Sherlock chuckled. “I see. Of course.”

“Well, broadly speaking, that is what happened, isn’t it?” John honestly couldn’t see anything amusing in the situation. “You  _ made _ me do it. I had no choice, not with those elaborate binds. I don’t know how you managed to get us--” Something had suddenly occurred to John. “Oh God. Please tell me you didn’t have anyone there to help you.”

“I didn’t have anyone there to help me,” Sherlock told him.

John shot him an angry glare, but then decided that ignorance might just be bliss in this case. Anything Sherlock  might  say on the matter would only bring him more pain and embarrassment. And the devil wasn’t in the details this time: he was sitting right across the table.

“But why, Sherlock? Why on earth would you do something like that?”

All signs of amusement disappeared from Sherlock’s face. He draw a sharp breath, then leaned over his empty plate and let it all out in one furious sentence.

“Perhaps I grew tired of your annoying habit of bringing up the matter when we are alone on a stakeout, when I’m waiting for the murderer to pop up and generally minding my own business, and there you go and start ponderin g w hether or not I have been intimate with anyone, and don’t I think it’s a vital part of human existence to be intimate with someone, and ‘oh, Sherlock, you don’t know what you’re missing’, on and on you will go, unless I put an end to it, which I did!”

John stared down at the table. Sherlock had spoken so quickly and angrily that he had spat dark little spots onto the light grey table cloth. They looked like raindrops, thought John, like summer rain on a dusty pavement, which always made the air smell so soft, but he couldn’t smell that now, even though the pretty girl on morning television had said there might be rain in central London tonight, but maybe she got it wrong again. 

Then he shook his head to clear away everything pointless. There was no escaping, he would have to say something. In the end, he decided to choose the most insane bit of Sherlock’s little outburst and go with that.

“When exactly have I talked about your sex life on a stakeout? What stakeout?”

“Oh, any one of them!” Sherlock waved his hand about, then appeared to pick something up from thin air. “The Carmichaels, the night Sir Eustace died. We had a ghost to catch and all you could talk about was my personal life. Well, I did as you indirectly suggested and tried it out.”

Again, John didn’t know where to start. He had never heard of the Carmichaels, and he most definitely had not been on a stakeout with Sherlock at their house, asking intrusive questions about his sex life. None of it made any sense. However, the how’s and who’s were not his main concern at the moment.

“But why…” he tried instead. “Why me?”

Sherlock took the wine bottle and filled his glass to the brim. 

“Because I obviously made an error of judgment.”

“An error…? What did you think would happen? That you’d just drop me in a situation like that and I’d be  _ fine with it _ ? That I’d just  _ let _ you use me like that. For God’s sake, Sherlock…”

“Clearly I thought I was saving you the trouble of knowing anything about my plans to experiment with the subject and thereby releasing you of any responsibility for your actions. But it seems I was gravely mistaken.”

“Sherlock…”

“No, you’re quite right. It won’t happen again. In fact, you may be certain that I’ll never  _ force _ you to do anything. Including this dinner, so if you’ll excuse me...” Sherlock emptied his glass, then pushed his chair back with a loud screech and stood up. “I’ll be in the bar.”

Left utterly speechless, John watched Sherlock make his way towards the front bar, where it sounded like everybody had a lot to say and had to say it very loudly over the monotonous music.

John, on the other hand, continued to be speechless when his soup arrived, and stared at it till it was much too cold to eat.

“I’m such a git,” was the first thing he said when he stopped being speechless. The waiter, who had come to take away the untouched soup, was gracious enough not to agree. He just looked at him  with concern and asked if everything was all right.

“No, not really. But thanks for asking. Really, thanks.” 

John looked him in the eye and gave him a warm smile. However, this seemed to make the poor fellow even more uneasy. 

“I’ll have the check now, please.”

After paying for the food he had not eaten and the wine Sherlock had drunk, John followed him to the place where the happy people seemed to dwell.

In contrast to the nearly empty restaurant in the back, the front bar was filled with customers enjoying their  aperitifs which might or might not raise actual appetite - unless it was for more drinks. John let his gaze wander through the hoard of women in skimpy dresses and painful shoes, and the loud and confident men in designer jeans and quite comfortable looking loafers, who surrounded the women like hunters closing in on their prey.

John sighed. This was definitely not his sort of crowd. And it shouldn’t have been Sherlock’s, either.

Yet there Sherlock was, talking animatedly with two young women, who kept touching his arm  whilst they giggled girlishly at his cleverness. And they touched him again, when they suddenly grew all serious after something Sherlock had said, petting him like he was some sad puppy they had taken in from the rain. 

All in all, there was a little too much touching going on.

John made his way to the trio. The music was growing louder with every beat, or at least so it seemed, and the people who were still able to talk to each other would soon be shouting in order to be heard. Or was it the other way round? Did people start to talk louder as they got more drunk and that was why the music had to be turned up? John had no answers. He just wanted out of there as soon as possible.

“Sherlock, I think I’m heading home now. Are you coming?”

All three turned to look at him. There was definite resentment on the women’s faces - and faked surprise on Sherlock’s.

“So soon? But I haven’t even introduced you to my new friends.” Sherlock wrapped his arms around two tiny waistlines. “John, this is Mandi - with an I - and Suzanne.”

John nodded to both, without earning so much as a smile from either of them. In fact, it seemed like they were ready to scratch his eyes out. John wondered what he could have done to upset them so in the thirty seconds he had known them. 

“So, this is him?” Mandi asked Sherlock, eyeing Joh n v iciously. Then, resting her fake blond head on Sherlock’s shoulder, she sighed, “Oh, honey, you could do so much better than him. If he doesn’t want to be intimate with you, there’s plenty of others who will.” 

And she draped her arm around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him closer. John couldn’t see her other hand, but had a nasty idea where it might currently reside. Her generous top looked like it was ready to give up and move to rag heaven when she squeezed her - yes -  __ fake breasts together against Sherlock’s side.

For a moment John could only stare at those two huge balloons and count the blue veins shining through the stretched skin. Then he tore his eyes away from her unnatural cleavage and looked to Sherlock for answers. 

“Intimate? You told them I didn’t want to -  _ what _ ?”

“Yeah, he told us,” said the other one this time - Susan? - placing her hand on Sherlock’s chest, right over his heart. It could have been a protective gesture, had the hand only rested there. But the way Susan drew circles onto Sherlock’s shirt, occasionally slipping her fingers inside between the buttons, made it a little less protective and a little more molesting.

“How can you accuse him of forcing you to have sex with him?” she snapped at John. “Years and years you’ve been together, and when he finally gets enough courage to take things further, you say that he’s  _ forcing you _ ! Do you have any idea how it makes him feel?” Then she turned to look at Sherlock, now rubbing his chest like trying to give him cardiac massage through his thorax. “You poor little thing, being rejected by your own boyfriend over and over again. Tell him how much it hurt when he didn’t respond to your hints. Go on, tell him.”

John stared at Sherlock’s face, tried to see through the perfectly crafted mask he had put on: the sad little gay man, opening his heart to someone and being turned down. So effeminate, so lovable - and so incredibly fake for all but these two bimbos to se e.

“ _ Boyfriend _ ?  _ Respond _ ?  _ Hints _ ?” John felt like an idiot, having to stand there repeating random words. “Sherlock?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you never noticed!” Sherlock exclaimed, his eyes wide with mock indignation. The women instantly tightened their hold  on him. “Did you never wonder about how it could be that I kept accidentally walking into the bathroom just as you were stepping out of the shower, time and time again? It’s right next to my bedroom, for god’s sake, of course I knew precisely when you’d be finished!”

The women nodded vehemently in agreement.

“And how about all those times I walked around the flat without my clothes on? All you  ever  bothered to do was to throw a bedsheet at me and tell me to cover myself up!” 

Sherlock inhaled deeply. John wished he could have done the same, as all  the wind seemed to have been knocked out of him. It didn’t help that people had started to gather around them, attracted to the drama. Didn’t they realise that they were using up all the air? Air that John’s brain really needed right now, because he had to be able to process this, to understand this.

Everything Sherlock had said so far had been - well, true. At least, it was true that he walked in on John a bit too often for it to be merely coincidence, which John had thought to be yet another proof of how rude and self-centred Sherlock could be at times. Whereas the occasional nudity - John had put that down to just laziness. But now he was supposed to believe that it had all been, what, Sherlock’s attempt _to come onto him_?!

“As it so happens,” Sherlock continued, “I’ve been told that despite my unconventional looks, I am, in fact, somewhat attractive -  _ striking _ , I think was the word that was used by these ladies. And believe it or not, John, but there are people who wouldn’t mind seeing me naked.” 

He glanced at the two women, who eagerly agreed with him, both with their mouths and their groping hands. They both had ridiculously long, painted nails, which John suddenly wished he could pull off one by one.

“The most I ever got from you, was holding your hand,” Sherlock said, his voice trembling ever so slightly. It was actually quite masterful. “And even that was only because our hands were cuffed together at the time - funny story, I’ll tell you all about it later,” he added to his companions. 

“Sherlock, can we just…?”

But Sherlock interrupted him by turning around and shouting: “Bartender!”

And in answer to Sherlock’s request, a fresh line of shot glasses was set on the bar and a vodka bottle waved over them like a magic wand.

“No, he’s had enough, thanks,” John tried to say to the bartender, but it was as if he didn’t even exist. The man just glanced at Sherlock, received a confirming nod from him, and kept on pouring the alcohol.

One of the women - John had lost track of them already - downed the first shot and offered another to Sherlock. This time John managed to intervene, however. He swiped the shot glass  from her hand and onto the floor, where it broke into countless sparkly little bits and pieces.

“Mental!” she shrieked, scratching at John with her inch-long nails.

“Why don’t you just leave him alone, you psycho!” jumped in the other, equally loud woman. “He doesn’t want a frigid git like you! We’ll take care of him, won’t we, Suze?” 

The other one turned to Sherlock, who had already received a new glass and was emptying it  swiftly . “Mandi’s place has this nice big tub, easily fits three...”

But John shook his head, too agitated to let this go, not just yet. “No, Sherlock, you’re drunk. You’re not making the best decisions right now. Come on, you’re coming home with me.” 

John reached for Sherlock’s arm, pulling him away from the women, but was  shoved away by both the women and Sherlock himself.

“You can drop the act, Sherlock. I know you’re not going to do anything with these girls, not really, and it’ll only end up badly. Come on, we’re leaving.”

“No!” Sherlock nearly screamed, his voice at least an octave higher than usual. Apparently he had re-evaluated his mock-gay act and decided to plunge into more of a ladyboy mode: more vulnerable, more in need of rescue. And much more shrill.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” he whined, his lower lip trembling as if he  was about to burst into tears. “I’m having fun here.  _ Fun _ , John. And these ladies actually find me attractive and want to be with me, so you can just piss off and leave us alone!”

By the time he had finished, John was seeing red. Without much thought or reason, he snatched hold of Mandi/Suzanne and yanked her roughly away from Sherlock. She fell on the floor along with a few bar stools, screaming and cursing like an injured teenager, and her friend dashed to her aid. 

Left alone, Sherlock seemed to drop some of the act, but didn’t get a word in before John had grabbed him by the front of his shirt.

“You’re coming home with me, right now. And once you’re sober again, we’re going to talk this through. All right?”

But Sherlock wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were on something right behind John. 

“John, I think you should know there’s--”

It was at that moment that two unbelievably thick arms wrapped around John’s whole upper body. They pressed his own arms against his sides and squeezed his chest so har d,  he couldn’t breathe. His hands were left grasping at thin air as he lost his hold on Sherlock’s shirt and felt himself being lifted off the floor.

“Sherlock...” he tried to say, but no sound came out. Suddenly John felt very light-headed and the dark room started dancing around him. A lot of faces, all serious, some angry, all upside down. Then suddenly there were shoes everywhere, high heels and patent leather as far as the eye could see, which seemed odd.

Just before his whole body started to go limp, he noted with some calm that he was being carried out of the bar on someone’s shoulder, much like a sack of potatoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still one more chapter to go before all this silliness ends. Hope you like it!


	3. Act III

John was woken up by the fresh air that hit his lungs, and he gulped it in thankfully. He was sitting on the pavement outside the restaurant, leaning against the legs of an absolutely enormous man. The man looked down at him and did not seem pleased. John had to admit that he was mildly concerned by the size of his frown. This was definitely not the sort of person he wanted to displease.

John pushed himself up on his feet and took a closer look at the man, who had carried him out of the bar - or at least he looked as much of him as he could see of him without craning his neck. The man’s biceps were roughly the size of John’s thighs, possibly bigger, and his bulging arms were constantly slightly raised, as if he couldn’t bring them down to his sides even if he wanted to. The fact that his head was shaved made him look even more masculine and menacing. For some reason, these bodybuilding types never seemed to show the same affection to their hair as they did to other parts of their body.

A bouncer, John deduced, and an angry one at that.

When the bouncer began to speak, John expected to hear nothing but expletives and dropped G’s and H’s. 

“You do realise why I was compelled to remove you from the premises? We can have none of that rough-housing here, you understand. This is a respectable establishment, and you, as a patron, would be well advised to act accordingly. It is most inconvenient for me to have to extract you in that manner.”

The bouncer had a strong Nigerian accent, which was strangely at odds with his polished manner of speaking. Maybe this was the Nigerian prince who had been sending John all those emails, asking for his assistance with his heritage? 

John took a moment to collect himself, cleared his throat and tried to muster up some royal blood for himself as well. Since this was an apparently civilised man he was faced with, he decided it best to reason with him.

“Yes, I understand, and I’m sorry for inconveniencing you, but you see, I have to get my friend out of there.” 

John pointed inside, even took a step towards the entrance, but the bouncer quickly blocked his way, shaking his shiny bald head.

“Please,” John tried again. “He’s had too much to drink and he’s about to do something incredibly stupid, and it may all be my fault.”

The huge man tilted his head. “If you are, indeed, the root of his unhappiness, tell me: why would I be inclined to let you in to cause more havoc?”

“Because he’s doing vodka shots and hitting on everything that bloody moves, and I have to stop him!”

“I urge you to hold your tongue with me.”

“But you don’t understand! He’s just told me that he has feelings for me. Or something. It’s kind of hard to tell. You’d understand if you knew him. But the point is that I can’t let him go home with some random bimbos and have sex with them!”

The bouncer took one long look at him, and for a moment John thought he might have got through to him.

“Please, I just want to go and get him. Haven’t you ever been in love?” 

Apparently not, John concluded as he breathed in the smell of the moist pavement, against which he had just been slammed on his stomach. As the bouncer forced his arms back and held him in place, all John could think about was that it must have rained while he had been in the restaurant. It had been at least fifteen minutes ago, maybe more, because otherwise there would’ve still been puddles in the cracks. And the people stepping over him would’ve had wet shoes. Still, the weather forecast had been right, after all.

“Look, I won’t make trouble. No, no, there’s no need for the--”

But before he could finish, the handcuffs clicked around his wrists, making his protests somewhat futile. The bouncer dragged John to his feet and pushed him into a small room right inside the entrance to restaurant, next to the coat room. He was seated in a chair and told in no uncertain terms to refrain from talking. 

The bouncer fished out a phone from his pocket and tapped it just once to dial. When they answered and he told where he was calling from, it didn’t take a lot to guess to whom he might be talking.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. Some people simply won’t be told. Yes, I entirely agree with you, but one can’t go dealing out justice, even if some people are practically begging for a spot of trashing. So, you will come and collect him? Thank you kindly, officer.”

He put the phone away, gave John a deeply disapproving look, left the room and closed the door behind him.

In an instant, John was up. There was a round window in the door, and he could see the bouncer standing outside, screening the customers very discreetly but thoroughly. 

John was in agony. Here he was, sitting in handcuffs and waiting for the police to come and give him a slap on the wrist, when Sherlock was inside, doing God knows what. For all he knew, Sherlock might well be having sex in the toilet with either one of the women - or both! But John couldn’t see how he could possibly slip past the bouncer, especially when the man seemed to be holding a special grudge against him.

As painful as it was, he had no choice but to sit there and think about what he had just said out loud. 

_ Oh God. _ Where had that word come from? It had just rolled off his tongue, so easily, so naturally, as if he was used to confessing his love everyday. And when exactly had it happened, falling for Sherlock? When he had lain tied up on top of him, with his cock up his arse? Was it all just the result of one awkward, deeply weird shag, one of Sherlock’s twisted experiments?

But of course, John knew in his heart that wasn’t true. His fall had taken place long before that, before Sherlock’s fall, before the dog and the woman, before Moriarty. As embarrassing as it was to admit, John had been Sherlock’s from the start. And that was precisely why he had to stop Sherlock from doing something with those women. With anyone that wasn’t him.

Then came the miracle. There was some commotion coming from inside the restaurant, the sound of breaking porcelain mixed with shouts. One of the waiters probably had an accident with the trays - John hoped it wasn’t the nice young man who served him earlier. But it meant that the bouncer left his post in such hurry that he didn’t even stop to lock the door.

The next moment, John was out and running back into the bar. He gathered a few raised eyebrows as he rushed through the crowd with his hands tied behind his back, but he couldn’t have cared less. Just so long as they didn’t alert the security before he found Sherlock… If only he could find Sherlock before he did something incredibly stupid...

There. The three of them had moved to sit at a table in the back of the bar - for more privacy, no doubt. Still, John was relieved they hadn’t reached the sex-in-the-loo stage just yet. 

John headed straight for them, without the faintest idea what he would say to Sherlock, only that he would have to let Sherlock know that he was an idiot, and so was Sherlock, and they should just be idiots together. Yes, that was about it. John was confident the exact wording would come to him when he got around to saying it.

But just as he was approaching the table, where the two women seemed to be practically dry-humping Sherlock, someone accidentally bumped into John. If it hadn’t been for the handcuffs, no harm would’ve been done. However, with his hands behind his back, John was unable to keep his balance and so he fell right against Sherlock’s table.

The women screamed, probably thinking this to be the attack of the mad ex-boyfriend, who had come to seek vengeance for his previous humiliation. Of course, in John’s book, lying in handcuffs across a bar table, with dozens of curious eyes on him, was possibly worse than what had happened before.

“John?” 

He looked up and found Sherlock leaning over him, helping him back to his feet. Sherlock looked amused. 

“I see you managed to anger the doorman.”

“Yeah, I poured my heart out to him and he called the police on me. Fear of intimacy, I say.” 

The room was swaying a bit in John’s eyes, and his head felt funny. He thought about sitting down, but he had something to say and it would sound better coming from someone more or less upright. If only he could remember what it was. 

“Don’t. Not with them.”

Yes, that was all he could come up with. It might have been a good idea to think about the wording beforehand, after all.

Sherlock frowned, his head tilting in a way that made John’s stomach flutter.

“Why-y?” Sherlock drawled.

Sherlock couldn’t have possibly looked more sceptical. John almost wished the bouncer would come and stop him before he could make an even bigger fool of himself.

“Because… Because it should be me.”

“What - should?” Again, Sherlock took his time, pronouncing the words exaggeratedly.

“I don’t know, everything!” John nodded towards the women, who were both clutching their expensive-looking handbags as if he was about to snatch them. “All they see is your tight suit and your weird eyes and that bloody voice of yours, and they think they can just come along and take it all, when--”

“That’s impossible,” Sherlock cut in. “They can’t possibly  _ see _ my voice. Unless they utilize a programme that draws a graphical representation of the sound waves--”

“It doesn’t matter!” 

John tried hard to collect himself. But it wasn’t easy, in the circumstances. People were staring at them, eavesdropping without even the decency to hide it. Most of their commentary was thankfully drowned by the music, a horribly monotonous beat interrupted only by some moaning singer who seemed to be singing the tune to a completely different song. All in all, it was not a good time for confessions of any kind, especially to someone like Sherlock, who kept twisting his every word. 

“The point is that they can’t have it,” John said as calmly as he could. The strength with which he had plunged into making this unplanned public announcement was dwindling fast. “Because it belongs to  _ me _ . I’ve earned it. I’ve bloody earned it...”

“Be careful!” screamed Mandi/Suzanne and quickly pulled Sherlock to the safety of her bosom. “They’ve cuffed him! Is he some kind of a psycho? Mandi, call the police!”

“Just because I’m in handcuffs, it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me…!” John started, but then stopped. What was the use? There  _ was  _ something wrong with him. There had to be, right? Otherwise he wouldn’t have been in handcuffs in the middle of a busy bar playing the role of spanner when Sherlock was about to pull. 

How the hell had it even come to this? He, John, had been the injured party,  _ he  _ was the one who should’ve been mad and upset and doing dumb, heterosexual things to compensate. And now he found himself groveling before Sherlock, practically begging him to choose him over two sexy and willing women with loose morals. 

Yes, there definitely was something wrong with him.

“Look,” he tried one last time, “I just want to talk.”

“Sherlock, honey, are you all right?” Mandi/Suzanne asked, clutching at Sherlock as if to make sure he was still one piece and not in any way injured by John’s mere presence. 

But when Sherlock spoke, he wasn’t speaking to her.

“I’m tired of talking, John. Thinking, theorising.” Sherlock shot him a glance that went right through him. “I feel it’s time to... experience.”

Wait.  _ What _ ? Sherlock, the king of detachment, wanted  _ experience _ ? John wasn’t sure he could trust his own ears. And what exactly was it that Sherlock wished to experience - a threesome with these two brainless bimbos?

“Fine. Anything. Just not…” John looked at the women, both of whom had their handbags raised and ready to strike. He could only hope they weren’t carrying anything too hefty in them. “Just not these two. Please, Sherlock. Not them.”

Sherlock glanced at the women, then turned his piercing eyes back at John, not a hint of mockery or jest left on his face. Mandi/Suzanne whined something, but Sherlock silenced her with a raised hand, still looking intensely at John.

“Not... them,” Sherlock repeated slowly, his brows tightly knitted. “But… you?”

John swallowed, then nodded. The music seemed to be pounding inside his head now. He felt a bit dizzy and wondered whether the bouncer had cut off his breathing for long enough to cause brain damage. It would certainly explain all the insanity.

“Anything, you said?”

Again John nodded. However, Sherlock continued to eye him suspiciously, clearly finding it difficult to believe what John was saying. Or trying to say, by way of nodding. John considered this for a split second and decided to add more words to the nodding.

“I mean it, Sherlock. You can do whatever the hell you want with me, experiment on me as much as you like.” 

But none of it received so much as a raised eyebrow from Sherlock. John was getting desperate. 

“Hell, I’ll tie you up and fuck you again, if that’s what it takes!”

To his horror, John realised that the music had stopped. No more pounding, no more high-pitched whining, no more anything. It had all stopped right when he shouted out that last sentence.

Slowly he turned his head to glance at the crowd around them. The patrons of this fine establishment looked very much like there might be some rough-housing. John suspected the bouncer would be deeply displeased with him, again.

“Come.” That was all Sherlock said as he grabbed John by the shoulders, swung him around and gave him a push towards the doors at the back of the bar.

John could hear words like “pervert”, “nutter” and “security” being uttered all around them as they made their way through the jungle of judgmental stares and accidental nudges. Some even tried to pry Sherlock away from him, apparently to rescue him from John, but Sherlock managed to escape them and stay right behind John’s back, guiding him forward.

Before he knew it, he was standing in the gents, with Sherlock still right behind him and two men at the urinal glaring at them suspiciously.

“Out. Now!” Sherlock shouted. 

The sound of his voice was fierce enough for one of the men to lose his aim and splash on the other man’s shoes, but neither saw fit to complain. They zipped up hurriedly and nearly ran out of the toilet, not even stopping to wash their hands. John feared they wouldn’t have washed them anyway.

As soon as they were gone, John was shoved against the back wall, his tied hands trapped between his back and the cold tiles behind him. Sherlock pressed his whole body against him, hard, and for a moment John thought he might dislocate both of his shoulders at once.

When Sherlock spoke, it was with his mouth so close to John’s that he was breathing in Sherlock’s hot breath.

“Anything. You said  _ anything _ , John. Did you mean it?”

John didn’t know what to say. Had he meant it? And how fair was it to ask him that, when he could feel Sherlock’s arousal against his hip?

“I...” 

“I need to know, John. Because in answer to your question:  _ no _ , I didn’t have any help. Believe me, it was no easy task to arrange us like that - especially with you unconscious and extremely inconvenient to handle - but I was willing to bend backwards, quite literally, to make it happen.”

John felt like applauding. Sherlock had made a wonderful job to make it sound like he was the great martyr here, willing to endure such discomfort - in order to force John to have sex with him! But before John could voice this out, Sherlock was already continuing.

“But now that my efforts have been made vain - by Google, no less - and you know what I want, there’s no saving you from having to make the decision.” Sherlock inhaled sharply. “John, I need your consent.”

“My... consent?”

“Yes, John. I wish to have you again.” Sherlock looked at him quite earnestly. His hair had fallen onto his face, but his eyes burned bright and determined between the dark curls. “It need not involve restraints, although I must say I quite enjoyed them, but it will have to include full penetration at some point. Other than that, I’m open to suggestions, as long as it’s with you.”

John’s arms ached behind his back, and the toilet smelled dreadful, and he wished he could be anywhere else. 

As long as it was with Sherlock.

Because... 

“Yes. God help me,  _ yes _ .”

The kiss actually made John whimper, like a small helpless animal. And in a way, that was precisely what he felt like: with that one word, he had given himself over to Sherlock, completely. And as Sherlock’s mouth devoured him, John had no choice but to allow it and hope there would be something left of him in the end.

When Sherlock finally pulled back, John gulped in air, expecting a second round. But apparently Sherlock had no such plans. Instead, he started to unbutton John’s shirt, revealing his chest and stomach, which were still rising and falling in quick succession.

“Sherlock?” he asked, but received no reply.

In a very meticulous and determined way, Sherlock kept on going downwards, now moving on to opening John’s belt, then his trousers. 

Oh God. Anything. He had said anything. And in Sherlock’s mind that might include, well,  _ anything _ . For instance, slamming John face down against the counter by the sink and buggering him right then and there. In the men’s toilet of a posh restaurant. Where anyone could walk in at any time. Sherlock would fuck him, while he lay there with his hands cuffed behind his back and had no choice but to take it.

_ Oh God. _

It was when Sherlock’s slender fingers slid underneath the waistband of his pants that John spoke again.

“Wait. Just… wait.”

There was a curious glimmer in Sherlock’s eyes when he lifted his gaze to meet John’s. His brows furrowed and jaw tightened as he studied John intently. The hands on John’s hips, however, remained right where they were.

“Why?”

“Because…” John’s gaze drifted to the counter by the sink. “Are you sure about this? Sherlock, you’ve had a lot to drink. You may not be thinking clearly.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Well, maybe not completely sauced, but you have had quite a few drinks and it may affecting your…”

“No, I mean apart from the watered-down wine, I have consumed no alcohol tonight.” Sherlock countered John’s attempt to contradict with a theatrical eye-roll. “The bartender owed me a favour. Well, he still owes me one. It was a robbery  _ and  _ a murder, after all.”

John made an attempt to cut in at that point and comment on the  _ murder _ bit, but Sherlock went on: “The point is, if you’re worried about my ability to perform, you need not to be. I’m perfectly able to maintain an erection for as long it is required.”

“Oh. Good. Yes, good. Good.”

“However, as much as I would like to throw you against that counter you keep eyeing, and ram my astoundingly erect penis inside you and keep pounding into you till we both scream, there are some preparations that ought not to be overlooked. And considering what we have at hand, I doubt that liquid soap will be sufficient to save you from discomfort.”

John had stopped listening after the word  _ penis _ . Something about screaming? But it was at that moment that he knew he  _ had  _ meant it. Sherlock really could do anything to him, and John was fine with it. Absolutely fine.

Before he could say this out loud, though, Sherlock’s rambling had reached an end, and not the one John wanted to hear.

“In conclusion, I propose we save the penetrative sex for a better equipped venue. Say, my bedroom.” Sherlock leaned in closer and whispered into John’s ear: “And yes, I said I will make you scream.”

John wanted to say that he had always thought that liquid soap was terribly underrated, when Sherlock’s long fingers wrapped around his cock. After that, there was very little John could put into words any more. Sherlock’s mouth was on his neck, licking and sucking and doing all kinds of bad things that John never would’ve guessed Sherlock to know anything about, and all the while his hand worked on John’s cock with slow but determined strokes.

It was too much, much too much, and John was just about to tell Sherlock so, when his hand suddenly slid away. John looked down and found Sherlock opening his own trousers and pulling out… Dear God, he hadn’t been lying about being  _ astoundingly  _ erect.

John looked at Sherlock, and apparently the shock was clear on his face, as Sherlock said: “I may have accumulated some pressure. Masturbating has been entirely ineffectual after that first experiment.”

There was nothing John wanted more than to be able to reach out and touch Sherlock, and he struggled frustratedly in his handcuffs. Then, without thinking, he pushed his hips forwards until the tip of his own cock touched Sherlock’s. It wasn’t exactly what he had been aiming at, but at least it was contact. Sherlock seemed to pick up on what he had attempted to do and the next thing he knew, Sherlock had wrapped his hand around both their cocks, pressing them firmly against each other.

“Oh _Goood_ …” John couldn’t help sighing as Sherlock began to move his hand along their shafts with those same slow strokes as before.

John felt so incredibly dirty. Sherlock was still fully dressed in his skimpy suit - apart from his erection - whereas John’s shirt was wide open and pushed over his shoulders and his trousers and boxers were hanging just barely around his hips. Somehow it made it seem all the more exciting. 

Sherlock spread his legs to bring himself a bit lower, aligning their erections and pressing closer to John. It felt _fucking a_ _ mazing.  _ John was already so close he could feel his balls tightening. If Sherlock would just speed up a little bit, he would be there, almost there...

“You - you all right, mate?” said a male voice that really shouldn’t have been there.

Sherlock turned his head and John craned his neck to have a look as well. The door was open and there were at least three men squeezed inside the doorframe. Many more heads, some of them female, were visible behind them. Some had a surprised look on their face, some seemed disgusted, and some looked like they just wanted to pee.

A horrid thought flashed through John’s mind: exactly  _ how long _ had they been standing there?

“Go away,” Sherlock said sharply and turned back to John.

“So… you’re not in danger or anything?” another voice asked. “That nutter’s not forcing you to do anything, is he?”

“For God’s sake, nobody’s  _ forcing _ anybody!” Sherlock spat, then directed his words to John: “You’re not here against your will this time, are you? I didn’t trick you or manipulate you or coerce you in any way, did I?”

John considered this for a second. There was the small matter of doing fake shots and hitting on random women to make John jealous. And he wasn’t entirely sure that it had been a complete accident that Google had spurted out this particular restaurant, where Sherlock just happened to have a favour to call in with the bartender. 

Still, John wasn’t tied naked to a bed, so he decided he mustn’t grumble.

“I think they’re mostly concerned about you, actually.”

“That’s absurd!” Sherlock huffed. Then he called out over his shoulder: “In case you haven’t noticed, my partner here is still in handcuffs. What on earth could he do to me, apart from ejaculating on my trousers?”

Another voice answered, and John recognised it instantly.

“He seems to be quite adept at accomplishing things despite being in restraints. I trust I wasn’t unclear about your staying put till the police officers would come to collect you?”

John peeked over Sherlock’s shoulder and saw the herd of curious toilet goers divide into two to let something huge and black push through.

“Um, sorry about that,” John said weakly. There really wasn’t much he could say to avoid being dragged away by the loveless mountain of meat, now, was there? “Look, I just wanted to talk to him. And, well, I did.”

“Yes, I see.” The bouncer gave them a look that would have passed for a judgment in any courtroom. “And may I assume from your lack of attire that you have reconciled your differences?”

“Yes, we have. Thank you,” John replied, trying to sound appropriately polite.

The bouncer nodded slowly, then glanced at the crowd behind him. “You do realise that this is a public facility?”

“For God’s sake, can’t they just hold it in?” Sherlock snapped.

“I can recommend our patrons to use the other toilets, but eventually this space must be allowed to return to its primary function.”

“I intend to suck this man’s penis while I masturbate,” Sherlock told him very matter-of-factly. “It shouldn’t take more than five minutes. Six, if this conversation continues for much longer.”

The bouncer nodded in agreement.

“Given the changed circumstances, I gather you are disinclined to make a formal complaint about this man’s behaviour?” the bouncer asked, pulling out a keychain from his pocket. “Hence, do you wish me to remove his handcuffs?”

John was about to answer right away, but then he saw Sherlock’s face. Sherlock was considering it. He was actually  _ considering  _ it as if there was something to consider!

“No,” Sherlock said simply. “There will be no need for that.”

“Very well.” The bouncer nodded again and started ushering people out of the doorway and back into the bar. Just as he closed the door, he added, this time directing his words to John: “In answer to your question earlier, yes indeed, I have fallen victim to the same malaise. I only hope yours lasts longer than mine did.”

The last thing John saw of him was a thick thumb, raised up. Then the door closed and took away with it both the audience and the music. They were alone.

“What malaise?” Sherlock asked, his brows furrowing. “Are you ill?”

John shook his head. “Nothing contagious.”

“Good. In that case…” Sherlock let go of their erections, which he had still been holding in his hand, and started to lower himself onto his knees.

“Wait.” John used his body to stop Sherlock and push him a step back. Before he could object, John let himself drop down to his knees. He landed on the sticky floor none too gracefully, and the pain that shot through his knees was hard to disguise. Still, he managed to breathe through the worst, then looked up to Sherlock in anticipation.

“I’m making a decision. This is  _ my  _ decision.” John swallowed hard before he could say it out loud. “And I thought you could, maybe, you know, fuck my mouth.”

For a moment, Sherlock just stared down at him. But John could see that parts of him were more than ready to pick up on John’s offer: Sherlock’s cock made a visible twitch and pre-cum was glistening at the tip of it. Now that John was looking at it up close, it seemed considerably bigger than he had initially thought, and he was already starting to regret his decision.

_ That, in my mouth _ , John thought. _W_ _ hat the hell am I doing? I asked for this, I bloody asked for this! _

Apparently Sherlock thought the same.

“Are you sure?” John nodded, but that wasn’t enough for Sherlock. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes.” John had made his mind. This was his choice, not just Sherlock’s manipulation like it had been at the house. His and his alone, God help him. “Yes, I’m sure.”

The next instant Sherlock’s fingers were in John’s hair, holding his head still as he guided himself onto John’s lips. John felt like screaming, but he couldn’t be sure whether it was from fear or joy. One hand in John’s hair, Sherlock used his other hand to trace the line of John’s mouth with the tip of his cock, which made John think he might well faint. It was such an obscene thing to do, to play with him like that, whilst he knelt there helplessly, his hands tied behind his back, his body exposed and vulnerable, waiting to be fucked.

Then the hold on his hair tightened and his head was tilted back to give Sherlock a better angle to enter his mouth.

“Are you ready?” Sherlock’s voice was deep and almost raspy, unlike anything John had ever heard.  _ God _ , he sounded sexy.

John nodded, and as he did so, Sherlock’s cock slipped past his lips and into his mouth. Panicking a little, John inhaled deeply through his nose just to make sure he still could, because Sherlock now filled his mouth completely. Sherlock moved slowly deeper and John’s eyes watered, when he reached the back of John’s throat.  _ Oh God _ , there mere notion that Sherlock could just suffocate him with his cock was such a turn on. John had never known that he had a kink, but apparently it was never too late to discover new things about yourself.

Then Sherlock’s fingers dug deep into John’s short hair, tilting his head further back, and he started to fuck John’s mouth for real. At first Sherlock’s shaft slid in and out quite languidly, but he kept picking up speed with every thrust, the tip of his cock hitting the back of John’s throat harder and harder each time. 

Sherlock clearly had no idea what he was doing to John, he didn’t have the same knowledge and boundaries as normal people had. It wasn’t gentle or loving or sweet. Sherlock fucked his mouth almost rudely, pumping himself down John’s throat, his hold on John’s head so firm that he couldn’t have escaped even if he had wanted to. But he didn’t. God help him, he didn’t want to be anywhere but here, being used by Sherlock, taking him in as far as he possibly could. 

John’s own cock was aching, begging to be touched. He moaned around Sherlock, trying to voice his agony, and Sherlock seemed to understand. He moved a little to one side, still keeping himself inside John’s mouth, and pressed his leg between John’s legs. It wasn’t much but it was enough. Thankfully John rubbed his erection against Sherlock’s leg, trying to find at least some friction to ease his pain, while Sherlock continued to pound his mouth, now hitting the inside of his cheek rather than his throat.

The contact with Sherlock’s leg was minimal, but John was close, so close, and Sherlock felt so good in his mouth, and he wanted to tell him that, but all he could do was look up into his eyes, look at Sherlock’s perfect face now twisted in a fierce, animal-like grin as he drove himself into John again and again and--

John couldn’t scream Sherlock’s name when he came, he couldn’t dig his nails into Sherlock’s back or put a bite mark into his neck. But God help him, it was still all about Sherlock. And when Sherlock thrust his cock into John’s mouth for the last time and spent himself down John’s throat, John felt so fulfilled, so unbelievably satisfied, that he could have laughed out loud.

And as soon as Sherlock pulled away, he did. John’s laughter sounded through the empty toilet and echoed from the tiled walls. Apparently, it even reached the ears of the bouncer, who seemed to have been guarding the door and now opened it with a questioning look on his face. 

“You are quite finished?” 

John nodded against the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, still unable to stop smiling. The bouncer walked inside with keys in his hand and bent down to undo John’s cuffs. John noticed that he refrained from looking directly at their exposed body parts, and was thankful for his discretion. John believed he had been ogled enough for one day, possibly more.

“I suggest you leave as quickly and as quietly as you can. Also, I regret to inform you that you have been banned from entering his establishment again.”

John and Sherlock both agreed this to be a fair sanction for having sex in a public toilet. 

As the bouncer returned to the door, John pulled his trousers up and buttoned his shirt, and Sherlock tried to wipe off a stain on his trousers.

“Sorry about that,” John said and received a quick grin from Sherlock. Still, he knew the dry cleaning bill would end up coming out of his wallet. “And, um, what now? Where are we going to… you know.”

“Home?” Sherlock suggested. “Unless you’re hungry?”

“No, I had a good look at dinner earlier, I’m full.” John nodded towards the door that the bouncer was still keeping shut. “You know, those two lovely ladies of yours will still be out there. Are you ready to face them?”

Sherlock washed his hands at the sink, then buttoned his jacket and took one final look at himself in the mirror. When he turned back to John, there was a nasty glimmer in his eyes.

“Shall we?” He reached out a hand to John, who stared at it for a brief moment before taking it. “I think they will appreciate the gesture, don’t you, John? After all, I recall one of them calling me a little lost gay lamb.”

John snorted. “A wolf, more like it, dressed in sheep’s clothing.”

“And which would you prefer?” asked Sherlock, tilting his head in a way that made John’s spent cock feel a little less spent.

“Oh, I’ll take the beast any time.”

“Splendid.”

And they walked hand in hand out of the men’s toilet, prepared to dodge handbags and insults and impatient bouncers and whatever else life might throw at them.

***

Without bothering to knock, John made his way into the bathroom, where Sherlock lay in the tub.

“Why does Google Ads think I’d be interested in escort services?”

Very slowly Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced at the laptop John was holding out for him. Then he rested his head back down against the rim of the tub and let his eyes slide shut again.

“Sherlock? Does this mean that those two women were…?”

“The only thing it means,” Sherlock said calmly, “is that I must remember to use private browsing. Now, unless you intend to join me, go away and shut the door.”

John considered this for a moment, first taking another look at the computer screen with its tell-tale ads. Then he let his gaze wander to Sherlock’s naked body soaking in the tub, puffs of foam sticking to his chest, his hair all wet and curly. So completely relaxed and full of himself, the beautiful bastard.

John decided to leave the door open.

 

_ The end. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All done! I hope you had even half as much fun as I did when writing :) 
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this!


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